Title: Counterpane
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)
Characters: Frodo, Bilbo, Bryonia (OC - one of Frodo's relatives at Brandy Hall), various others
Rating: PG to PG-13. While this story falls within the guidelines of the FrodoHealers group in both letter and spirit, free from profanity or sexual content, it does contain material which may be distasteful to some readers. If you prefer to avoid graphic medical content or non-sexual bare hobbit "rear-views," then you may wish to avoid reading this story. Should you choose to continue, you do so at your own risk. I have chosen to provide a realistic portrayal of symptoms and treatment given the conditions in Middle-earth, and as such the content is quite graphic in nature. Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming. Summary: Young Frodo Baggins falls ill with the measles. (A short summary, but I'd rather avoid spoilers for this one.)
Story Notes/Announcements: I now provide regular updates of "Counterpane," which will be posted every other week until the story is completed (and no, that doesn't mean you'll still be reading next year!). I also plan to try and have vignettes or shorter fics posting during the off-week, though no absolute promises about how that will go. Look for the next "Counterpane" update on Tuesday, June 3. I will be trying to post chapters to FrodoHealers earlier - anywhere from a day to a full week in advance - and have finally found a way to over-ride the age-alert button, so if you've had trouble joining in the past and would still like to do so, just drop me an e-mail. :)

The bit of story told to Frodo is a portion of Beatrix Potter's wonderful "The Tale of the Pie and the Patty-Pan," published both on its own and in various compilations of her work, and while I have made some adaptations based upon hobbit geography and culture, the story is entirely hers, and I make absolutely no effort to claim her exquisite work as my own in any way. Credits for the nursery-rhymes and verses appear in the Author's Notes at the bottom of this page. The lullaby attributed as Buckland Traditional is of my own composition.

The formatting (including right-alignment and italics) in my posting to FrodoHealers and on ff.net may or may not be working correctly; the opening lullaby is intended for right-alignment, italics, and a point smaller font size.

For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact frodoatbagend@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom.

Chapter Eleven: Hushabye Darkness

Hush, little baby, hush, hush-a-bye,
Mamma will sing you a sweet lullaby,
Your Papa will keep you safe while you sleep
And your Mamma over you close watch will keep.

Hush, my dear baby, hush, hush-a-bye,
Don't you fret and please don't you cry -
Tomorrow's troubles bring sorrow enough,
Tonight, only sleep, upon pillows of fluff.

Hush, my sweet baby, hush, hush-a-bye,
And slumber soft in Mamma's arms till morning is nigh,
No troubles and sorrows shall tonight you alarm,
For Mamma is here and will keep you from harm.

Hush, my heart's darling, hush, hush-a-bye,
It makes Mamma weep to see how you cry,
Tears and pains will come as they may,
But so, too, will joys, and happier days.

-Traditional Buckland Lullaby
often sung to fretful or sick children,
according to notes recorded by
Master Meriadoc Brandybuck
during the Fourth Age


The sound of rain woke him.

Or did it?

It was difficult to tell. . .though in any event, he was awake now, and it was raining. The steady patter against the window was unmistakable. There was little light.

He felt very thirsty. He wanted something to drink, something cool and maybe a nice combination of sweet and tart at the same time.

There would be someone there, surely. He remembered there had been people there to take care of him. . .even his mamma. . . .

But wait.

How could. . .

The question required more thought than he could stomach attempting at present, so he simply prepared to call out, to try a simple hullo and see who might be there, as he felt too weak to make any effort at sitting up. The effort, however, promptly provoked a bout of coughing. . .though it did have another, much more pleasant, effect: someone appeared at his side immediately, clucking and raising him gently in arms that smelled of elder and catnip, rubbing his back until the spasm passed, rattling in his chest.

"There now, poor poppet. . .you've still got a nasty touch of croup there, haven't you? But at least you're doing better."

He looked up. Aunt Bryonia cradled him close. The restraints were gone, though the bed-railing was still attached on one side.

"Here's something for him to drink, Bri. . .let me try?"

The voice was so familiar that he scarcely dared to hope.

But half a moment later, there was the familiar scent of dusty books and freshly baked seed-cakes, mingled with a strong hint of Longbottom Leaf. . .

"Uncle Bilbo. . . ."

"Yes, lad. . .I'm here. Sssshh-sshhh-sshhh now; sip a little of this for me."

He drank obediently, eager for anything to ease the thirst, and this answered better than he could have even hoped: the delicious taste of blueberry shrub, exactly the combination of sweetness and sharpness he had wanted. Quickly he drained the cup, watching with some reluctance as Bilbo took it away.

"A bit more, Bri - there's plenty, and the doctor said it's fine - "

At once Frodo sighed with relief; the return of the refilled cup was eagerly welcomed, Frodo draining this in turn.

"There now. . .is that better, lad?"

"Mmm." Frodo gave what he could in the way of a nod.

"Good, good. . . ." Handing the empty cup back to Bryonia, Bilbo eased him back into the pillows, propping him up just a little: now Frodo could see the curtains drawn over his window, the closed door, an array of medicine-bottles and jars on the table at the foot of his bed. "You're safe and sound in your own bed, Frodo-lad. . .how are you feeling?"

The answer required some thought, and Frodo hesitated a moment before responding. "Sort of all-out. . .not so awful as I did, but. . .my chest feels funny. And my stomach. And - " He blinked, finding even that slightly difficult, as if his eyes were stiff. "My eyes too."

"Hopefully that will be better soon as well. Your fever's fallen; that's a very good sign. But you still need plenty of rest and quiet. . .and we shall have to watch you closely for a while."

Still blinking, Frodo frowned. It seemed almost a nightmare. . .except that he still felt unwell, and found that he wished to lie still in bed when usually he would have wanted to be up at once, playing with Uncle Bilbo, who was more fun than anyone else for games and stories. Turning his hands up, he studied them curiously, palm and back: covered with red splotches. Noticing, Bilbo chuckled, though his eyes did not seem to entirely lose the worry within their depths.

"It seems you've caught up to your cousins after all, in spite of yourself, my lad."

Cautiously Frodo started to push the covers away, but Bryonia's arms promptly caught him.

"No, no, no. . .you've got to stay warm and cosy, poppet; you've been terribly ill."

"Bri!" Bilbo's tone carried a note of humorous exasperation mingled with patience. "Let the lad have a look - half a moment won't kill him. He's still running a touch of fever, you said yourself. Lifting those covers won't do any harm."

Curiously Frodo pushed the covers back, starting slightly. He had no night-shirt on, and indeed, he found himself covered from head to toe in a blotchy red rash, spots covering every bit of his body that he could see. A moment's glimpse was all he caught before Bilbo was tucking him back in, pressing him gently to lie back.

"There now, Frodo-lad; you've had a look. Time to rest. . .do you think you could eat a bit of broth for me, or some jelly, while you have a story?"

"Nothing too excitable, now, Bilbo - "

Frodo stifled a smile. Aunt Bryonia thought many of Uncle Bilbo's best stories too exciting. But there was something more important for the moment: he had not forgotten, and he felt he had been patient quite long enough.

"Please. . .I'd rather Mamma gave it me while you tell the story."

The grown-ups exchanged looks.

A nagging ache began to grow in Frodo's chest.

"Please. . .I know she must be tired, but I promise I'll go right to sleep after. . . ."

Another exchange of looks, and they were both at his side, Bryonia's hand pressed to his forehead, Bilbo's touching his chest. It felt icy-cold. He squirmed.

The heaviness settled against his throat.

"Frodo. . .poppet. . .your mamma isn't here. She's gone. . .remember?"

He shook his head firmly. It couldn't be true. It wasn't. She had been there not so very long ago, just a little while earlier.

Bilbo pulled up a chair, seating himself right against the bed with a nod to Bryonia, who swiftly disappeared into the hall. Frodo watched her go, half-satisfied, only half-listening as Bilbo began to speak.

Surely she would fetch Mamma.

She had to.

". . .a pleasant little tale, from a book I brought for you all the way from Bree. Now. . .once upon a time there was a Pussy-cat called Ribby, who invited a little dog called Duchess, to tea.

'Come in good time, my dear Duchess,' said Ribby's letter, 'and we will have something so very very nice. I am baking it in a pie-dish - a pie-dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good! And *you* shall eat it all! *I* will eat muffins, my dear Duchess!' wrote Ribby."

"Truthfully, Uncle, I would think the muffins nicer," admitted Frodo, with a quick glance toward the door. "Depending on what was in everything, of course. . .but. . .if one had mushroom muffins, or ginger muffins, or blueberry-jam muffins, and a steak and kidney pie instead of shepherd's or mushroom. . . ."

Bilbo smiled, though Frodo noticed (with mounting fear) that the expression never quite reached his eyes. "I might just agree with you, my boy. I might, at that. Isn't that just like a little cat?"

Frodo nodded, glancing toward the door once more. "Mamma says I can have a puppy this spring if I like. . .I'm old enough to take care of one now. She ought to be here already, oughtn't she?"

"Frodo - "

He pulled his hand away from Bilbo's, sitting up. The room spun.

Smiling girls, rosy boys,
Come and buy my little toys:
Rabbits made of gingerbread
And sugar ponies painted red.

"I want Mamma!"

Bilbo seized his arms, forcing him back against the bed, and he began to cry. He could hear her singing in the hall, low and sweet. . .coming up toward his room, not going away from it. . . . She was coming! Aunt Bryonia must have told her!

Rain on the green grass,
And rain on the tree;
Rain on the smial-top,
But not on me. . . .

Gently the door opened.

And it was not Mamma.

"Bilbo, I've sent for the doctor and given orders for some fresh water to be brought up. We need to give him another bolus while we wait; that should help. . .he can't take any of the syrup for fever on an empty stomach. . . ."

He felt himself being lifted, his struggles failing against strong, steady arms, then soft hands against his bottom. . .more medicine. . . . Sobbing into Bilbo's shoulder, he dug his fingers into the thick folds of fabric, clinging tightly, wrenching the material in his hands. His uncle, one arm secure around Frodo's back and arms, finally reclaimed his seat, settling Frodo on his lap and at once beginning to gently rub the small back.

He could hear Bryonia continuing to talk over Bilbo's soft shushing.

"Poor mite. . .perhaps we should bundle him back into bed. I still don't think - "

"Leave the child in peace, Bri. I've got him. No need getting all flustered; the room's plenty warm, and my lap's warmer still. He's no worse for it, and he's not going to catch a chill."

One, two, buckle my shoe. . .

He had thought that the most amusing thing in the world when she first taught it him.

("What's a shoe, Mamma?

"Have you seen the great things some of your uncles wear when they go out into the wood, or to the Marish on business? Those are boots, and they're very like shoes. And *these* are shoes."

And she had shown him a beautiful pair of bright blue shoes with silver buckles. Made for her when she was a girl, she said. Bilbo had given them her at his birthday celebration the year she and Papa began courting, and she was as proud of them as anything in the world, even though she hardly ever wore them.)

Another cluck of Bryonia's tongue, though her tone was kind as she came to stroke his hair. "Sweetheart. . .try to rest."

Three, four, open the door.

(They would run to the door of his room, and she would play-act at knocking, letting Frodo open it with a deep bow and flourish, as if he were a grown gentlehobbit.)

Bilbo's voice close at his ear. "Frodo-lad. . .I'm sorry. It's not your mamma. I wish I could help you understand. . .I wish you *could* understand. It's only a trick of your mind; soon you'll be completely better, and those will stop. . . ."

Five, six, pick up sticks.

A fresh sob choked his throat even as he continued to listen.

He couldn't explain to them that the worst part was knowing.

Knowing the truth.

Seven, eight, lay them straight.

Nine. . .

What came after nine?

Burying his face in Bilbo's chest, he let them come. . .sobs in relentless waves that made him cough over and over, his chest aching. His eyes burned, so he kept them closed.

There was no use even in opening them, after all.

She was gone.

~to be continued~

Author's Notes: The nursery-rhymes and songs used in this chapter are adapted from My Very First Mother Goose, edited by Iona Opie and illustrated by Rosemary Wells, and from A Nursery Companion, "provided by" Iona and Peter Opie. Iona Opie and her late husband Peter are acclaimed scholars of this oft-forgotten area of study and have preserved many rhymes which, sadly, are rarely passed down in today's society. Given that many of the songs Tolkien himself wrote into The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and his poetry (see The Tolkien Reader) draw upon rhymes from these very collections (the man in the moon, anyone?), it seems plausible enough that Frodo's childhood might well have been filled with hobbit variations of these nursery-rhymes. . .hence Primula's whimsical little song about treats, tea, and rain, and the counting-rhyme she taught to her son so long ago. If I do undertake a full-scale revision of "Counterpane" at some point, it may incorporate different rhymes, as I've now tracked down some of the larger works and am doing a close review.